Even Hearts at Odds
by Cr1mson5
Summary: Only half of her had ever really been in love with him, but still she masked her pain every year she had to break his heart. Sequel to "A Little Valentine's TLC", because somebody wanted one and it seemed like a pretty good idea.


**I wish I owned it. I don't own it. So…I'll have to settle for pretending like I do.**

Valentine's Day was always our day, the day Conner and I spent the most time together. We would walk around the streets of wherever we went, looking in shop windows and drifting in and out of different buildings just to annoy the owners or the people behind the counter, and he would always take me out to lunch and buy me flowers and chocolates, the whole nine yards and all. And I loved just getting to spend time with him, my boyfriend, the one guy I thought understood me best. But there was always the picture that came in the mail, usually the day before the holiday, always with "TLC" hidden in it somewhere. And after a few times of getting one every year, it finally clicked who'd sent it to me, what it meant. It was a profession of love from someone who was too shy to admit it to my face.

Tim never was good with emotions, I don't think.

He and I hadn't really been best friends from the start. In fact, at the beginning, we could hardly stand each other. Then, as we got to know each other a little bit better, we started to see through the masks and the facades to what was really underneath. Tim and I glimpsed something common in one another that drew us closer together: we were both hiding behind our armor. Tim's was quiet, emotionless, strategic, and mine was stubborn, headstrong, and bold. But I think mine was a little less of an act than his, because I've never known Tim to follow orders perfectly. He doesn't like getting bossed around; he prefers to _be _the boss. And that was something I could share with him. It was the one common quality we had that led us to discover everything else we had in common, like hating opera and adoring chocolate, and loving the rain and sitting through long movies like _The Lord of the Rings_. Getting to know him, I realized that Tim and I were more alike than Conner and I had ever been. He saw it, too. He knew me better than anybody on the planet, better even than Conner.

Maybe that was why it hurt him so much every year that I had to silently turn him down.

In the beginning, it was always because I was still crushing on Conner, or dating Conner, or thinking about dating Conner, or getting back together with Conner. In the beginning, it always had something to do with me and Conner. Now that he's gone, I can't really say exactly what it is that keeps me from telling Tim that I understand. Maybe I'm afraid that, by getting with Tim, I'd be betraying Conner somehow. After all, it doesn't really seem to matter how much I tell myself that I love Tim, because my thoughts always return to my first love, the other love. It doesn't really seem to matter how in love with Tim I convince myself that I am, because my love for Conner will always shine through, true and brilliant and everlasting, like the light bulb that never burns out, to cast back any romantic feelings toward the boy who's known me for years but could never know enough about me to know how to say that he's in love with me. Or, maybe, I'm just scared that he'll change his mind, that he'll decide that he'd rather have someone else instead of me and leave me as broken as I've left him in years past.

Don't think I haven't noticed how the other girls act around him. They'll always walk a little straighter, a little slower, when he's around, seeming to take extra care to puff out their chests and inject a little sexier swing into their hips. They'll smile at him winningly and laugh at his jokes and toy with their hair in just the right way so as to look coy and sly at the same time. I catch myself doing it, too, sometimes, so it's not like I'm totally in the clear, either. And they're all pretty girls, Kara and Megan and even Rose, with her one eye and thick, snow-white hair. A guy like Tim, he could have anyone. He could have his pick of the litter of the girls, heroes and civilians, who line up at his feet, flirting, attempting to seduce, and practically begging him to give them just one little shred of that huge heart of his. I bet he knows it, too. I bet he knows that he's got everything a girl could want in a man, everything that…that _I _could ever…could ever dream of having. I'll bet you anything that he toys with the idea of having, like, six girlfriends at once, just because he knows he could do it. He could have six pretty girls on his arm, maybe more, just because he's Tim.

But, sitting here in the kitchen at Titans Tower, thinking about that, it seems like an idea that would be so out-of-place in the mind of a gentleman such us our Robin. I'm pretty sure he'd hate it if he ever found himself taking advantage of a girl or five like that. Tim's not the kind of guy who views a girl as a status symbol; he sees her as an equal. He doesn't like manipulating people if he doesn't have to, and even sometimes when he has to.

He could have anybody he wants for his own. So, why does he still want me?

I stare at this year's TLC letter as I sip a late cup of coffee. It's laying on the placemat in front of me, the colors contrasting sharply with the dull gray metal of the table. As always, Tim isn't the best painter in the world. But it's still a beautiful picture, still carefully done, a sort of union of two desires with the rose and the rain. I can't help but think that maybe, if only unconsciously, he remembered while he was painting this that I'd said once, when we were hanging out with Bart and Conner, that I always wanted to have a boy give me roses in the rain. I couldn't really say why, and I still can't, but the picture makes me look back on that day and smile. I wonder if he'd filed that little bit of information away for later use, if he was in love with me even back then. It'd make sense. I'm not really an expert, but I do know the way Tim's wired, and that would fall into line with the way he operates. Everything is a methodical process or procedure for him…even emotions.

Breaking suddenly from my thoughts, I realize with a start that I'm scowling at the familiar three letters written into the rain in the upper corner. I wish I could tell him, but my heart is still clinging to Conner's memory, to Conner's touch. If I give in to Tim's, will I push away the only boy I'd ever held so dear? Somehow, it feels like sacrilege, to even think about dropping a hint that I get what Tim is telling me. He's such a sweet guy, but…I'm committed to Conner, even though he's dead. And I can never let go of the part of me that died with him.

I peer over the top of my cup as I bring it to my lips for another drink and see Tim enter the kitchen, moving as if he's in a trance. He's got his mask on, like always, but I'm sure that, if I could see behind it, his eyes would be bloodshot with the pain of getting his heart broken. Believe it or not, but he's actually a hopeless romantic, evidenced by the TLC letters. Romantic people don't respond well to rejection; I know that for a fact. He goes over to the coffee pot and starts making his own late cup, extra-strong, extra-caffeinated, black, just like he likes it. He always had a weird taste in coffee. I lower my cup and call out, "Finished with that spring cleaning yet?"

Tim jumps, as if he's just noticed I was here, which can't be true just because he's a Bat and not normally that inobservant. "Um…what?" he asks, and I can tell that he's clearly perplexed.

"Spring cleaning," I repeat patiently, almost cheerily. "You said you were going to clean out your closet, remember?"

"Oh. That's, uh…kind of easier said than done." Tim turns back to the coffee pot, speaking over his shoulder to me in an even tone. "It's the Amazing Black Hole of Crap, remember? Whatever goes in is pretty much doomed to wander undefined space for all eternity until I finally figure out how to organize it."

I chuckle at the joke, ignoring that the normalcy of the situation is forced, that his steady tone of voice is only present because it's a perfectly well-rehearsed part of his training, the only tone of voice he's allowed to have back home in Gotham when he's on the job during the week. I have to swallow the sour feelings of regret and wistfulness that arise, white-hot and searing, in the back of my throat. I can't afford to let this go beyond anything more than a close friendship, and we both just have to accept it. If you weren't a mind reader or else someone who knew us both exceedingly well, you could look on at this scene, and it'd be just another regular day at the tower. But, if you were a little bit more informed, or a little more perceptive, perhaps, you could see the tension that's starting to materialize between us.

I find that I'm no longer staring at the picture, but rather, its painter. His back is turned to me as he works at coaxing the cantankerous coffee pot to make a little more than it wants to hold, but I doubt he doesn't feel my eyes on him, doesn't shiver an imperceptible bit before returning to his routine. I doubt that a chill doesn't run up his spine, along with the thought: _Does she know? _All of a sudden, I see things that I've never noticed before. When did Tim get so much taller than before? When did he start to grow his hair out longer and straighter? How is it that I've missed how much firmer and more sizable his muscles have become and the flawless shape of a body in peak physical condition? How is it that I didn't see how much he's grown from the small, slender boy I'd first met into someone who's just barely beneath manhood?

I realize all of this as I gaze at him, and I look away quickly, somewhat embarrassed that I'm thinking about this. Why do I want him so much? Why can't I just accept that this betrayal of everything Conner and I had isn't right?

Maybe it's because I think about him every day. Not necessarily because I'm in love with him, but really more because I'm worried about him. He spends all his time down in his lab anymore, laboring away at who knows what until we're called off on a mission, and even then, it's like he's just going through the motions to get back to his _real_ work in the basement. He shuts everybody out, even me sometimes, because he doesn't want us to know how much he's hurting. He doesn't want us all to see the extent of the damage he's suffered from all that tragedy in his life, so he hides behind his armor, his cold, soulless armor that blocks out the world so he won't have to deal with the sympathy coming in or the pain that surely afflict him if he loses more people. Back in Young Justice, I hadn't found it hard to imagine that Tim could grow up to be like this someday, but I never knew how difficult it'd be to deal with until I was trying to deal with it. I hate that he's doing this to himself. I want to help him, but I don't know how to without looking or sounding like I think he's insane.

_If you really loved him, you'd be able to help him, _a vicious little voice in the back of my head sneers at me. _If you really cared about him, you could find the words to tell him how you feel._

I refuse to accept that theory, to acknowledge the words of the devil on my shoulder. I _do _love Tim. I _do _care about him. It's my ties to Conner that hold me back now, not any lack of emotion on my part. I just wish I could tell him that and not sound like a total jerk for it.

Tim sits down at the table, directly across from me, with a steaming cup of extremely out-of-whack coffee. He sighs deeply, blows on the drink, and takes a huge gulp, his face twisting in a little bit of a grimace as it travels down his esophagus. "Okay, so that was not the best coffee I've ever made," he remarks, scooting the cup across the placemat. "Maybe it'll get better when it's colder." He meets my eyes and cocks his head at me. "Are you alright, Cass? You look sad."

_You're an idiot, Sandsmark. _You're_ supposed to be asking _him_, you know. _I nod. "Yeah, I'm fine," I lie. He doesn't look too convinced, but it's good enough.

An alarm begins to wail, and Tim smacks his lips in that way he has when he's frustrated. "Typical," he breathes, pushing himself up from the table. "Let's go see what's wrong."

I don't hesitate to follow him, thinking, once again, that you'd never be able to tell this was a holiday. It may be Valentine's Day, but it looks just like any other Saturday at Titans Tower, even though a good number of us felt entitled to come late. However, looks can be deceiving. You can feel the romance—and the heartache—in the air, the warmer, fuzzier emotions that really only bubble up for everyone to see on days like this one, when nobody will ridicule you for admitting that you feel them. Maybe it's just luck that I'm stuck with a boy I can't have, or maybe it is fate that we'll keep running in these circles forever. Who am I to try and dictate what the fates or the gods or fortune has decided must be? No, I think I'll just stick to worrying about the fallout.

Tim might never see that I feel the same way. Or, maybe he knows, and that's why it hurts so much, because he thinks I don't accept my feelings for them. I accept them, but I must push them aside. I can't be with him, not now, not ever. When all's said and done, no matter how much I care for Tim, I am still Conner's girlfriend, and I have to stand by that, because it's everything I have left of what I lost.

As the Teen Titans race off to answer the distress call, I muse that we'll probably stay this way forever. Two friends on the surface, who are constantly battling with their emotions and their passion for one another on the inside, and I can deal with that. I know Tim can, too. In time, our wounds will heal, and maybe then we'll see the day that we're allowed at least one, fleeting chance at something more than just a friendship.

Valentine's Day was always our day, mine and Conner's. And, perhaps, someday, it might just be mine and Tim's day, too.

**~ End ~**


End file.
